


Love On A Real Train

by TheAstronomyMod



Category: Kraftwerk - Fandom
Genre: Casual Sex, F/M, Smut, sex on a train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:09:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5411090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomyMod/pseuds/TheAstronomyMod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ralf Hütter shares an anonymous encounter with a mysterious woman on a sleeper train hurtling through Eastern Europe.</p><p>Inspired by this tiny smile from the Trans Europe Express video...</p><p> </p><p>  <img/></p><p> </p><p>...and Tangerine Dream, of course.</p><p>This was a challenge to write some pure Ralf Hütter smut. If you just want the sex, skip to Chapter 2. If you want the characters and the situation set-up, read Chapter 1 first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I took the overnight train from Paris to Vienna for my great-aunt's funeral. Really, it was a ridiculous thing to have done. I should have flown, but I have always disliked aeroplanes, and been suspicious of being whisked about the earth's atmosphere at excessive speed. Anyway, from what little I knew of her, my great-aunt would have approved of the elegant gesture. No doubt, she would have travelled first-class to her own funeral. Turning up at the station, I was dressed perhaps a little excessively, but after all, my family had always been old-fashioned, with a distinct sense that one should dress _up_ for travel. I knew that the hippies and new age travellers that populated these mid 1970s padded about on trains and aeroplanes decked out in dungarees and kaftans, but it seemed wrong for the occasion. I wore a knee-length black leather skirt, reassuringly fitted, a black silk shirt, a tailored black wool jacket with velvet trim, and of course a smart felt hat with a mesh veil as befitted my mourning state.

My aunt and I had not been close. She was almost a stranger to me, but she was my last living relative in Europe, so I thought her passing required some token. The veil was pure theatre, but really it was a little treat only for me, to pass anonymously, free from the eyes of passing men. (The silk stockings, too, were a treat only for me, a reminder of life, even in death, and I liked the sensation of the suspenders against my thighs, especially where the leather overlaid them like a firm hand.)

I stepped into my allocated train compartment anticipating 13 hours of glorious solitude, as even if there were another woman, I could always use the veil and the mourning dress as an excuse to avoid petty conversation. And yet, there, in the far seat, staring out the window of this old-fashioned, wood-panelled luxury train, sat an unforeseen and unwanted young man.

His face was melancholy, and he seemed preoccupied, absorbed in his own world, as he did not even turn around when I entered. He, too, was dressed in a slightly old-fashioned and very formal style: long black coat with a thick fur collar, a glimpse of a dark suit lurking beneath, beautifully hand-tooled Italian shoes, all finished off with an elegant pair of matte black leather gloves. With his close shave and his well-cut hair - short for 1976, perfectly clipped to just above the ears, without a hint of sideburns - I might have taken him for a conservative young businessman, except for one minor detail. He was wearing _make-up_. HIs face was lightly dusted with light powder that exaggerated rather than concealed his extreme pallor, his eyelashes were blackened with mascara, and his lips were distinctly reddened. It was not the second-hand lipstick transfer of a man who had recently kissed a sweetheart goodbye; it had been deliberately applied with the same precision as that neatly clipped and severely parted hair, following the curves of his slightly thin lips.

I don't know that I would have called him handsome; his long face and his square jaw were too severe, his slightly upturned nose too blocky, especially with that deep frown creasing his narrow eyebrows. But he had good cheekbones, and an odd, doll-like prettiness that was compelling to look at, as I found myself studying him for clues of his origin. Pale skin and eyes the blue of Dresden china, with hair that was neither dark blond nor pale brown, his bland Northern-European appearance gave nothing away. He could have been English or Belgian, German or Danish. But the fact of his appearance, in my reserved sleeper-carriage, this was a mystery which needed to be resolved.

Raising my hand to my veil, I coughed delicately to attract his attention, then spoke, in French. "Excuse me, monsieur, but I believe you are in the wrong carriage."

His face turned towards me slowly, yet as I caught his attention, standing there in the door with my little red suitcase, he seemed to change completely. A slight coquettish dip of the chin, a flutter of his eyelashes as the tips of his lips twitched upwards, crumpling his cheeks into a shy, hesitant smile that transformed him from sharp and severe to almost breathtakingly pretty. A judder went through me, shaking me briefly, but I realised that no, it was merely the jerk of the locomotive setting the train in motion.

Yet when he did not speak, fluttering his eyelashes at the floor, I was forced to address him again. "I am very sorry, but I believe you are in the wrong compartment. I made the reservation this morning, and my ticket plainly states, sleeping compartment eight."

At last he spoke, though his voice was so soft I almost missed it. "I am very sorry, Madame, but this is the seat the Conductor showed me."

" _Mademoiselle_ ," I corrected testily, holding out my own gloved hand impatiently. "Let me see these tickets, perhaps you are in the wrong carriage."

He smiled indulgently, and dug in his own pockets to produce the thin sheets of card. "But of course." There was a slight accent to his French, clipping his vowels and elongating his consonants, but I could not place it.

I took the ticket and examined it carefully. His, too, said First Class Carriage, Sleeper Compartment Eight. "Impossible" I said. "I specifically asked to share with a woman, if need be." He extended his gloved hand towards me, to take his ticket back, but I held it out of reach, irritated. "I will speak to the conductor and get to the bottom of this. It is intolerable to sleep with a male stranger."

French never was my best language. His faint smirk betrayed that I had used the wrong verb; coucher instead of dormir added a strong whiff of eroticism to what I had hoped to be a neutral situation. Clearly, his prettiness had distracted me. Turning on my heel, I went off in search of the conductor.

The conductor examined both tickets with a sigh, then asked me to return to my carriage, and offered perhaps a complimentary glass of wine - red or white - while he radioed the train company headquarters and sorted it out. I returned to the compartment and sat, awkwardly. I stared at the young man defiantly, while he stared dreamily back at me. As the train left the brightly-lit station pulling out into the darkening night, I caught a glimpse of myself reflected in the window, and realised that he could see almost nothing of my face. It was the dark mesh of the old-fashioned mourning veil that attracted his attention, not my face. But when the waiter brought a glass of red wine, I was faced with a dilemma. Maintain my anonymity, or drink and show my face. I took the middle ground, adjusting my veil ever so slightly to reveal nothing more than lips and mouth, a slash of dark red lipstick almost the same colour as his own. He watched as I drank, rubbing his own two lips together slightly as if contemplating a glass of wine of his own, but remained silent.

The conductor returned eventually, with an explanation of sorts. The young man's tickets had been booked by an American woman - a Miss Whaley - yet when she had cancelled her reservation, her sex had remained on the reservation, but only the young man's name.

"Your girlfriend?" I enquired, hoping that it would defuse the tension, though I hoped they had not quarrelled.

"My business associate's girlfriend. They decided to drive back from Paris by car, and I extended my journey to Austria." Again, that faint but distinct trace of an accent, and he used the proper German name of the country, _Österreich_ , not the French, _Autriche_.

"So. If he has the reservation on the compartment, may I please transfer to another?" I asked, but the conductor shuffled his feet and apologised and made embarrassed noises. The train was full, there were no other compartments available, the only reason I had got this bed on such short notice was because this man's business associate and girlfriend had cancelled. They could, if I insisted, see if any men in standard class wished to upgrade, but it would be a seat not a bed, and there would be no refund for the difference in price, which was significant. I was glad that the veil hid my bitter glare as I conceded. "Well. I suppose we will just have to make the best of it" I sighed.

"Very well. Dinner is served, in the dining car, in an hour" mumbled the conductor, trying to back out of the situation as he was backing out of our compartment.

"The very least you could do, would be to offer me a complimentary meal, after this mistake" I suggested, hoping that the edge of irritation to my voice was not pushing my luck.

"I will take you to dinner" offered the young German - or maybe he was Austrian, I didn't know - in that quiet voice of his, though with a hopeful edge this time. "My treat."

"Very well" repeated the conductor and closed the door before I could issue any further demands.

"That is kind of you, Herr..." I raised my head expectantly, awaiting his name.

"Hütter" he supplied softly. "Herr Hütter."

I noted that he did not enquire after mine. I did not supply it, either. We sat, reading complimentary magazines in the awkward silence and exaggerated murmurs of two strangers forced to share a space until the dinner announcement came over the intercom.

He accompanied me to the dining car in pleasant but stoic silence, offering his arm as we passed through the uneven passages between the cars. I did not need the support, but appreciated the gesture. There was a clinical sort of coldness to his gallantry, holding doors, helping me off with my coat, a sweeping sort of gesture as we were shown to our table that would probably have involved pulling out the chair for me if the seats had not been fixed to the floor. I had pulled the veil completely down over my face to pass through the train, but as I sat, I adjusted it again so that I could eat in comfort, but leaving my eyes shaded. Herr Hütter said nothing, he merely hung our coats on the hook provided, then sat down at the table opposite me and removed his gloves.

I could not help but notice that he had beautiful hands, with long, thin, elegant fingers, fingernails buffed and manicured with the hint of polish. "The hands of a pianist," I said, intending only a passing compliment.

His face flushed slightly, again that shy, hesitant smile. "You have found me out."

"You do play, then?"

"I am a professional musician" he said, very quietly, his long eyelashes brushing his cheeks, and I could not tell if the modesty was false or genuine.

"How exciting" I said, with the edge of a smile.

"It is my job. I travel the world, I give performances" he replied with a slight shrug.

I tried very hard not to laugh at his melancholy tone. "Is it such a bad life?"

His face took on a very thoughtful expression as he seemed to contemplate this, as I examined this musician more closely. He was wearing a dark grey suit in a loose-fitting cut, a black shirt and a tie that was slightly too thin to be fashionable. But as I looked, I realised that the design I had taken for abstraction was actually a detailed and slightly kitsch painting of an Alsatian Dog. It was not the kind of garb I associated with young people and their energetic rock'n'roll music, so I surmised that he must be some kind of concert pianist.

But finally he spoke, looking up at me with his deep blue eyes, deep-set and hooded eyes, turned down at the corners, in a way that seemed to heighten his sense of romantic melancholy. And though I knew he could not catch more than a glimpse of my own eyes, I felt a spark of connection. "It can be very lonely," he confessed. "We travel so much it can be hard to maintain personal relationships."

Was that a tingle of flirtation, or simply a statement of fact? I had caught the impression that he had been looking with admiration at my figure as I passed out of the compartment ahead of him, but then there was the make-up. Would a concert pianist wear stage make-up? "Do you have a wife or girlfriend... or a boyfriend?" I added with a tone of voice I hoped conveyed understanding that this was a perfectly acceptable option to me.

He smiled and looked down, clearly embarrassed by the frankness of the question. "Not that the moment, no." His voice was very soft indeed as he added "I do not have a girlfriend" as it to clarify his preferences. I noted again, that he did not enquire as to my status, but then I supposed, I had already informed him that I was a _Mademoiselle_ , not a Madame. And then a shadow passed across his face. It was only for a moment, but it was the distinct look of a man who had been _bruised_ by love. I know of no other way to describe that look of intense pain that was tinged with mixed regret and nostalgia and a sort of wistfulness.

But as his face returned to normal, I realised that his tight-lipped smile of embarrassment had smeared his lipstick across his teeth. I gestured towards my own mouth. "I'm sorry, Herr Hütter, but you have..." I licked my own teeth just to be sure, then lowered my voice. "You have lipstick on your teeth."

His eyes opened suddenly very wide, as he turned to the darkened window and gazed into his own reflection. "Mein Gott" he gasped, as if he had only just realised that he was wearing make-up, then cast about the table. He picked up one of the napkins, but it was a heavy, linen cloth.

I dug in my own pocket, and produced a tissue to hand to him. He wiped the lipstick away, but a wine-dark stain remained.

"I had to be photographed for a promotional campaign this afternoon" he explained, gesturing towards his face.

"I see. Is this what brought you to Paris?"

He pulled an expression of slight disdain, twisting his doll-like prettiness into an ugly sneer. "It is unfortunately necessary to give interviews occasionally to the press. I find it quite boring, to be perfectly honest."

"Boring?" This time I allowed myself a laugh, at this world-weary ennui in such a young man. Despite his mature clothes, he did not look more than 25.

"I do not find myself a particularly interesting subject" he confessed, arching his eyebrows meaningfully.

That much was obvious, but then again, it appeared that he did not seem to consider anyone else an interesting subject, either. When the waiter came, I ordered a light supper, but a full bottle of wine. It was annoying to be paired with such a man for the long, overnight journey, but I intended on sleeping soundly, at least.

Yet somewhere over the course of dinner, as my inhibitions lowered, I found my intentions changing. I could not face having a long, boring dinner in silence, so I did my best to draw him out into conversation, over the meal, though I took great care and skilfully chose our conversation topics so as not to delve too far into the personal and remind him of these tedious interviews he said he hated.

We talked of art at first, as I enquired into his tastes, pushing him for details of his opinions and flattering him a little, trying to build up his confidence. He was quite knowledgeable on this subject, and spoke intelligently on Kurt Schwitters and Gilbert and George, before telling me of the Düsseldorf arts scene, the sculpture of Joseph Beuys and the architecture of Paul Schneider von Esleben. But oh no, he was not from Düsseldorf itself, he was from Krefeld, a charming mediaeval town a few miles outside the city, had I heard of it? Unfortunately, I had not. His face fell slightly, and I had to move the conversation on.

But then as we moved from art to novels, and from novels to films, he actually seemed to blossom. His face grew animated, his hands grew expressive as he described his love of cinema, of silent film and Fritz Lang. The lapses of silence grew shorter, and he started to keep up his side of the conversation, occasionally even lapsing into flirtatiousness as he refilled our drinks. His French grew more fluent as he drank, no longer stuttering and clicking his tongue until the correct word appeared, but his German accent grew more thick. I decided it was really rather attractive, that heavy German gloss to his speaking voice.

As the wine relaxed me, the conversation seemed to grow more natural, and yet at the same time, it was as if we grew more aware of our roles as actors in a script. His flirtation seemed quite studied and a little affected, as if every compliment was in subtle air quotes, but even as I tried to draw him out, he still seemed so guarded. Prettily spoken admiration and superficial charm he would offer me, as much as politeness decreed, but his personality remained a closed book. It was not like in the movies we discussed, where two strangers met on a train, shared their most intimate secrets, and fell in love. We went through all the mannered _forms_ of flirtation, but revealed nothing of ourselves.

But it was at that moment, halfway through my second glass of wine, as his eyes shuttered closed on the tiny glimpse of his life that had opened when he mentioned Krefeld, that I realised I desired him. That despite the manners and the formality, we were a man and a woman, at dinner together, in the process of deciding whether to go to bed with one another. And somehow it was his very closed-off-ness and guardedness and secrecy that made me want him, made me want to open him up, unpeel that fashionable suit and loosen his tie, unbutton that tight-fitted collar, unlace him and see what was inside. And yet, at that same moment, I knew that it was I who would have to seduce him. He acted the part of a coquettish girl, dropping his eyelashes and lowering his voice, touching his own face and lips as he spoke to me, but I could not tell if he was genuinely a very shy man, unable to ask for what we both seemed to want, or if he was merely a very arrogant man, playing the role of a shy man to make me chase him.

The waiter cleared our abandoned plates, then brought the after-dinner menu. My companion seemed to study me carefully, though I knew he could not see my face above my lips. His fingers tapped hopefully on the menu, asking if I wanted coffee or an aperitif, and I could not tell if he just wanted to preserve the connection of conversation, the warm flirtatious glow of a good meal and companionship that I had tried so artfully to provide; or if he was just putting off the moment that we would have to return to the compartment and face the decision of sex.

He ordered coffee. I ordered a cognac. We lingered until it was no longer possible to linger. if it were a fine restaurant in Paris, we would have closed out the place, but it was not a restaurant, it was a busy dining car and the staff wanted our table for the next couple. He paid the cheque - cash, large bills - then stood and picked up my coat. As I rose, I saw his eyes go to my body as if evaluating me, lingering on my buttocks and my legs. I had lived in Paris long enough to know that I had a figure that pleased men. Not bony and coltish the way the fashion magazines liked, but round and firm and inviting, and as Herr Hütter looked at my rump, beneath the soft leather skirt, I could tell that he was contemplating what it would be like to slip within.

Slowly, silently, we made our way back along the cold, draughty corridor towards our berth, though neither of us were quite so steady on our feet. The train had picked up momentum, and we had both had more than a bit of wine. This time, when he proffered his arm on the gaps between the carriages, I did not hesitate. The train rounded a corner at speed, and centrifugal force pressed me against his body. I stumbled, and his arm went around my waist, catching me before I fell. The train shuddered over a fork in the tracks, but then we pressed on.

As we passed through the last gap, into the first class sleeper carriage, the train shot over a level crossing with a distinct bump. We made it into the next carriage, but the jolt threw him against me, and we both stumbled against the wall. As the rhythm of the train evened out again, we just stood there, warmth against sudden warmth, his face only a few inches above mine, and I could feel his breath suddenly coming very fast and shallow.

I laughed lightly. "You know, if this were one of those old movies we were discussing, this is where you would move to kiss me."

He looked down at me, and dipped his eyelashes shyly, smiling that cautious smile, though he did not move his body off mine. "I don't even know what you look like."

"Do you need to?"

"I..." His voice trailed off, as the tension seemed to ratchet across his face, muscles flickering underneath that doughy white skin.

Even as he hesitated, he did not shift the weight of his body off me. Feeling suddenly very bold, I reached behind me and put my hand on top of his, where it was still clutched against the small of my back, to stop me from falling. As his breaths grew heavier, I slid our hands slowly downwards, past my coat, and then up and under its hem, until he rested on the supple leather stretched across my arse. For a moment, he just stood, stunned, but then he started to move, back and forth, his fingertips exploring the tactile sensation of the leather, until he cupped his hand, closing it across my buttock to feel the curve of my body.

Our lips drifted slowly together, as he explored with his fingers, but abruptly, just before we made contact, he pulled away frowning. As he backed off from my body, I thought for a moment that he was angry with me, but he took me by the hand and pulled me gently down the corridor. "Come inside. Before someone sees."

"Are you afraid of being seen?" I laughed as he closed the door behind us, and latched it so even the staff could not disturb us.

"Are you?" he asked, gesturing towards the veil, though I could see by the tenting in his trousers that he was as aroused as I was. "Why are you wearing that, anyway?"

It was the first personal question he had asked me all evening, I realised with a start. "I am going to a funeral in Vienna," I explained, my voice dispassionate.

Suddenly, the irritation drained out of his face, and he at least had the decency to look concerned as much as flustered. "I am so sorry..." he stuttered. "Your loss; I am sorry for your loss. And I am sorry for my... impropriety outside."

I smiled. He was very cute when he was flustered. "Thank you. My great-aunt was 97, so it was not unexpected. And your... impropriety was not unwelcome."

"Not unwelcome...?" I could see him struggle with the French grammar and the double negative.

"You and I" I confessed. "It was obvious that we would go to bed together from the moment that I agreed to stay in your compartment."

"Was it." He looked slightly perplexed as he turned away from me, running his fingers through his hair. At that moment, his facade seemed to drop. He was completely unsure of the situation! So it seemed he was not an arrogant young man playing the coquette to get me to chase him. He was genuinely, unaffectedly, and slightly apprehensively shy.

My confidence faltered, and I wondered if I had read our entire conversation in the dining car completely wrong. "Well, not if you don't want to."

He took of his coat and hung it on the back of the door, then turned back towards me. "Let me see your face. Please."

I reached up and unfastened the hat pin, then lifted both hat and veil from my head, smoothing down my dark hair as I found a place to stow the hat without fear of it getting crushed.

The relief in his face was reassuring, at least, as he sighed "You are very beautiful."

I laughed aloud. "What did you think?"

"I don't know." Tentatively, he took a step towards me. I reached out and took his hands in mine, raising them to my face and rubbing my skin back and forth across them. They were as soft as they looked, those delicate piano player's hands. But then he smiled mischievously. "I would probably still have made love to you, had you turned out to be ugly. But I would have turned the lights off."

I debated whether to laugh at him or slap him, gently, but decided that laughter would be more deleterious to that ego. "You are a very arrogant young man."

His expression changed, for a brief moment that melancholy, slightly bruised look passing across his slightly hooded blue eyes. "I am not exactly young any more. I am 29... I will be 30 in August."

The vulnerability with which he confessed this insecurity excited me. "I am 45."

The astonishment in his eyes flattered me, deeply. He looked at me carefully and licked his lips nervously. A muscle flickered in his cheek, and he cleared his throat before he spoke again. "Kiss me?"


	2. Chapter 2

Stepping towards Herr Hütter, I tilted my head and reached out to cup his long, square jaw in my hands. His spidery, girlish eyelashes fluttered as his lips parted, straining towards me as if afraid to ask for what he wanted. My mouth touched his, his thin lips so soft to the touch. My hands moved back to encircle his head, twining my fingers in that perfectly-clipped hair as I pushed my tongue into his mouth, moist and firm and tasting ever so slightly of the sourness of coffee. He let out a tiny moan as our bodies moved together, and this time I didn't have to encourage him to move his hands to my arse, pressing slightly against my buttocks as he pulled me closer towards him. Those delicate pianist's hands were so gentle against me, and yet so insistent.

As we kissed, I unbuttoned the jacket of his dark grey suit and pushed it off his shoulders. Then my hands went to the collar of his black shirt, tugging gently at the tie, then unfastening the top button. My mouth left his, kissed his cheek, his jaw, sucked the lobe of his ear for a moment, then drifted down his neck. As he unpeeled, the skin beneath his collar was so white it was even paler than the powder of his face. His head lolled back as I unbuttoned another button and pulled the tie loose, following my path with my mouth, kissing at each further inch revealed. The dog on his tie seemed to be laughing at me as I pulled it loose, and tossed it onto a seat. Herr Hütter did not protest, raising his arms slightly to aid me as I finished unbuttoning his shirt and pulled it backwards off him, exposing his boyishly hairless chest.

I had never seen another living human being so pale, his nipples like two dark stars across the creamy expanse of his ribcage. Free of his clothes, he was not particularly broad, and his shoulders sloped down slightly as if indicative of a lifetime of bad posture, hunched over a piano keyboard. And yet, I kissed him. I kissed his neck, I kissed the small hollows where it joined his shoulders, I kissed the broad flat plain that sloped down towards his nipples. I kissed the ribs that showed beneath his arms, and I kissed the tiny paunch that hung out over his trousers, before he remembered to straighten up and suck it in.

As I knelt down, his hands went to my hair, pulling the pins loose until it tumbled about my neck. I paused, and looked up at him, seeing a faint sad smile dusted across his face as he watched me. _I can take that sadness away_ , I thought to myself, and tugged at his belt, rubbing my face back and forth across the tenting in his trousers to feel where his organ was. Belt and flies came loose as I tugged at them, and he reached down and pushed the whole mass of fabric off his slim hips. His pale white worm of a cock had risen towards me, and seemed to be darting this way and that as if with a mind of its own. Stepping out of his trousers, he kicked them away before tip-toeing towards me. I glanced up at him, but he was already battering at my face with his cock, impatient for me to take him in my mouth.

With a mischievous smile, I glanced up at him, caught his eye, then dove down beneath. The masculine musk of him was intense as I buried my face in his bollocks, sucking first one into my mouth, feeling the hard nub of flesh slipping back and forth inside its loose bag of skin, then exchanging it for the other. He whimpered sharply, clawing his fingers into the thick mass of my hair, but did not try to move me. Round and round, I moved my tongue, teasing him for a second with the edge of my teeth, but his sharp, strangled cry warned me not to apply any more pressure. His intimate hair was rough against my tongue, but the skin of his balls was so soft, even as I could feel his cock growing harder and harder against the side of my face. Opening my mouth as wide as I could, I managed to suck both of his balls inside, and held them for just a moment, pressing my tongue against them, even as he tried to buck against me, rubbing his cock against my cheek.

When the hiss of his breath sharpened to a sigh, I finally released my captives and leant back to admire my handiwork. HIs cock thrust forwards, as erect as the prow of a ship, his hips still yearning towards me as he could not longer bear to not be inside me. For a moment, I paused, just looking up at his doll-like face, those thin lips tightened into a grimace of ecstasy, his eyes drooping so that only a sliver of blue showed through.

" _Blas' mir einen_ " he said, softly but urgently, and I did not need to know much German to understand what he wanted. Rocking back on my knees for a moment, I grinned up at him as I raised my hand to my lips, and inserted my own little finger between my lips, then extracted it slowly, glistening with saliva, as if in promise of what I was about to do to him.

"Relax and part your legs" I ordered, in French, and he smiled and complied, loosening his hips as he stood with his legs slightly apart, his cock still dancing like a prizefighter between us. As I searched between his buttocks, he tensed, but only for a moment, before realising what I was doing. My nails were short, and my little finger, still slick with saliva, slipped inside easily, and as he seemed to engulf me, his head lolled back, his mouth open, his breath all going out of him in a great sigh. And at that moment, I opened my mouth and took him into it, parting my lips and sucking him down as deep as I could manage. My lips closed, I tightened my mouth, and he tried to start thrusting into me, but I stilled him with a tiny movement of my little finger.

Almost holding his breath, he kept very still, one hand in my hair, the other steadying himself against the wall, against the motion of the train, as I sucked and then released, moving my mouth back and forth down the length of his cock, as my other hand moved in the opposite direction, massaging his gland for a moment before sliding almost out of his sphincter. I barely needed to do anything; we were all of one piece, his cock, my mouth, his gland and the gentle rocking of the train, all in motion, all at rest. Dazed with wine and lust, it all seemed to flow together in a comforting whole, like I could have just gone on sucking forever.

But Herr Hütter's breaths were growing shorter and shorter, his chest heaving, his cock twitching as if with a mind of its own, and it was getting harder and harder to keep it from going down my throat and making me gag slightly.

Finally - it could have been ten minutes, it could have been ten hours - he cried out. "Stop, stop. Please... stop."

I let him slide out of my mouth and backed away, rolling back onto my heels as I looked up at him. "What is it? Am I hurting you?"

"No... no..." He looked down at me, his face glowing with pleasure as he bent over to kiss me, sucking my tongue roughly into his mouth before letting me go. When he let me go, I moved my wrist, as if to remove my finger from his sphincter, but he held it in place. "Just give me a moment to recover. I am far too close. And I want to _fuck_ you..." The English word was disconcertingly ugly amidst the French. "...for many hours yet."

"Do you want to pull the bed down?" I asked, pragmatically, gesturing towards the handle in the wall with my free hand.

He nodded, and there was a slightly ungainly dance as he shuffled over, trying to keep my hand clenched between his thighs, then released the catch and pulled the single bed down, folding up the seats beneath as the whole apparatus swung into place. As he struggled with the locking mechanism, I had to let my hand slip out, massaging my wrist as I reached for a tissue to clean my finger. But Herr Hütter smiled as he turned, and hopped up onto the narrow bed. "You are far too dressed. Come here, I want to see your breasts."

"No" I said, calmly but very firmly.

"What? Why not?" His voice was playful, teasing, but I bent down and extracted the belt from his trousers.

"Lie back and raise your arms" I directed. He did as he was told, turning and stretching himself across the bed, before raising his arms above his head, looking in the struts of the bed support system for something to hold onto. "Good boy."

He grinned, almost wriggling with excitement as he ground his hips into the mattress, as if he knew what I had planned for him. I wrapped the belt around his wrists twice, firm, but not too tight, so it would not cut off his circulation if he struggled, then bound it to the strut of the bed. As he lay there, the length of his pale white body exposed, his thin chest, his slightly flabby stomach, the narrow muscles of his thighs and calves, I thought how beautiful he looked, all splayed out for me. Bending over, I kissed his mouth, teasing him with my tongue, then kissed each of his nipples, his belly button, and then wrapped my mouth one more time around his cock, teasing him with my tongue for just a moment before letting go.

"Put your finger back" he directed, then realised it sounded a little too much like a command, coming from someone who was bound up naked. "... please?"

"I need my hands for other things" I told him, then turned around and walked through into the little tiny cubicle that held both lavatory and sink. Thinking it would do him good to wait, I unfastened my suspenders, pulled off my already-moistened knickers, then sat down and relieved myself. Above the sink were a row of toiletries, shampoo and conditioner, soap and hand lotion. The tiny bottle of hand lotion was about the right size and shape, so I took that, then picked my knickers off the floor.

Herr Hütter was lying on his side, rubbing his swollen cock against the mattress as he awaited my return. When he saw me, his lips crinkled up and his face folded into that shy, little boy smile of pure pleasure. But I seized him by the hip and pushed him roughly onto his back.

"Part your legs, if you please." He did as he was told.

"What are you going to do to me?" he asked, just a little too eager.

I opened the small lotion bottle, squeezed a large dollop onto my hand, then reclosed it, and rubbed the oil all over the blunt end of it. When Herr Hütter saw what I was doing, he parted his legs wider, and raised his hips, showing me the dark band of hair between his pale legs, and the darker star of a hole beneath. Very carefully, so as not to hurt him too much, I worked the lip of the bottle into the hole, then pushed the whole thing inside with a slight pop. He gasped aloud, and tried to expel it, but I pushed it further inside, until it found its target, and he started to moan.

"I think you need to be quiet" I told him, then bent down to kiss him one more time, before wadding my knickers into a ball and pushing them into his mouth. His nostrils flared at the scent of my pussy, even as he choked slightly, but his back arched towards me. Watching him struggling against the belt, the gag and the impromptu plug, I moved backwards to admire my handiwork as I removed my jacket, then slowly unzipped my leather skirt. As he watched, I slid it off my hips, noting how his eyes widened at the sight of my suspenders. Men; they were just so ridiculously easy to excite! Slowly, I unbuttoned and removed my shirt, but left my lace bra on, just to punish him for demanding that I take it off.

Then I went back to the bed, ran my tongue up and down the length of his bare chest a few times, wondering at how hairless he was, then carefully climbed up on top, and straddled his thighs. He was bucking his hips wildly now, his cock describing lazy figure-eights in the air as he tried to reach me, but I grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved him back against the mattress roughly. His reaction surprised me, as he stopped struggling and went limp, his face becoming more passive the rougher I was with him. Slowly, carefully, I bent down over him, rubbing the lace of my bra against his face. If my knickers had not been inside his mouth, I could see that he would have been biting and grasping for my nipples with his lips, but he had to content himself with raising his neck and rubbing his cheeks and nose across the lace, feeling with his skin for where my nipples were hardening. I teased him, again and again, holding my breasts just within range of his face, then dancing back again, exploring just how far that pale, swan-like neck could reach.

And then, finally, when I grew tired of this game, I sat back, feeling for his cock with my hands between my thighs, and gently lowered myself onto him, feeling the hardness of his organ penetrate me and almost completely fill me. I was drunk, and slightly desensitised, so I had to grind myself against him, to get the measure of how we fit together. He gasped, even through the lace of my panties, but then he seemed to go almost completely limp and passive, lying back with an ecstatic expression dusted across his doll-like features. I moved my hips, pulling almost completely off him, then leaned forward, kissing his cheek gently, before breathing into his ear.

"I like it when you struggle. It'll be better for both of us, if you struggle."

There was a snorting sound like a muffled laugh, then he nodded his head vigourously. For a moment, he seemed to tense, and I felt his body coil like a spring, as he drew his knees up behind me. And then he bucked, with all of his might, arching his body up off the bed, throwing both of us into the air. I almost shrieked with delight, but then did my best to curtail my scream, so as not to attract undue attention from our neighbours. Herr Hütter smirked as we both slammed back into the mattress, even as I seized him by the shoulders and shoved him, hard, pitting my strength against his, trying to hold him down. He bucked again, sending showers of sensation across my pussy, even through my drunken state. We wrestled and writhed against one another, as I felt sensation returning to my body. I bit at his neck and shoulders as waves of pleasure started to build between my legs, though I knew I would never come in this state. And he arched his back, and offered his neck up towards me, slamming his hips against me and thrusting up into me. He might have been small, but his compact body was surprisingly powerful, shaking me again and again as we mock-fought in our coupling.

The train seemed to echo our motions, rocking us back and forth, and swinging us from one side of the bed to the other with centrifugal force. As we rounded the edge of a lake at high speed, the whole carriage shifted towards the wall, so that Herr Hütter and I were half hanging off the bed, trying to stay upright. And then, twenty minutes later, as we wound our way in the opposite gyre, climbing towards a mountain pass, a sudden jolt threw us against the wall, pinning me there as Herr Hütter got the upper hand and took it out on me with his sharp hips against my soft body.

I could feel him building to some kind of crescendo, his hips straining and his face gurning, his whole body sort of shivering like a man who was coming close to orgasm. I kissed his face, again and again, sucked at that hollow of his neck until I left a mark, but he was already lost in his own pleasure. His breath caught, sharply, then he pushed up into me, thrusting so fast I thought he would tear me in two. He moved his head up as if he wanted to speak, then dipped his chin and bobbed his head, but then he stopped, held his hips firm, and quivered inside me. Then he gently slowed the motion of his hips until he was still.

I did not even need to ask; I knew he had come. So I stilled my own motion, and lay back against his chest, kissing his shoulders gently. We lay like that for a few minutes, maybe two, maybe twenty, as I felt his cock slowly shrink and then slip out of me. But just as I thought he was going to doze off, I heard him mumbling something. "Mmmfffll mmm ffffmmmll."

"What?" I said, then remembered the gag. Laughing to myself, I sat up, extracted my panties from his mouth, even more sopping wet than I had put them in, and deposited a kiss in their place.

Herr Hütter kissed me for a moment, but then he pulled away, his eyes glinting as he smirked at me. "Sit on my face" he urged.

"What?" I laughed.

He repeated himself. "Sit on my face... _please_?"

Well, if he insisted. Rousing myself again, I crawled up his body, and held myself above him, looking down at his excited face and wide grin for a moment before I lowered myself onto him, engulfing his mouth, his sharp chin, and the tip of his pert nose with my dripping and bruised pussy. I stayed like that for a few seconds, then worried that he could not breathe, so I lifted myself slightly.

"No" he murmured from between my thighs. "Do it again."

I sat, and then slowly became aware that he was pushing his tongue up inside me. His lips and mouth were moving against my pussy, as if in a French kiss, sending tickles and shivers of pleasure all through my body. Moaning softly, I moved back, but he took a deep breath and followed, raising his neck to thrust his face into my dripping gap again and again. The waves of pleasure were growing more intense, too insistent to ignore, but every time I darted out of his reach to catch my breath, I found myself going back for more. His tongue pestered me, worried me, wormed its way inside me, before finally, he raised his head and pressed the whole flat of his tongue directly against my clitoris. My entire body felt like it sparked with electricity. He pressed again, not harder, but faster, and I danced away.

"No no" I hissed. "I can't. It's too intense. Try beneath."

He nodded, then did as I asked, moving his tongue down so that it was just below my delicate organ, but the rhythmic pressure he was applying seemed to bubble up from beneath, until my whole clitoris was vibrating and pulsing in time with his excitation. My breath caught, I tried to hold it, but it was too late. The chain reaction had already started, as my whole body seemed to boil over into the most intense orgasm I had experienced in many years. It was like a meltdown, shivering and pulsing and racing from my pussy, further and further back until the echoes seemed to dissolve somewhere up my spine and deep down in my thighs. For a moment, I just kneeled there, feeling a heartbeat between my thighs and wondering if it was mine or his, then I climbed off him and collapsed against his chest.

He nuzzled his face against my hair, and kissed my forehead. "Release me... if you please?" he asked.

"Oh. You probably need to..." Remembering some of the things I had done to him, I realised he would probably need to void very soon.

"I just want to hold you" he sighed.

I unfastened him, and he stretched, then I helped him rub life back into his stiff arms. But then he just seized me, and crushed me against his chest, and held me, kissing my hair again and again and murmuring softly. He must have held me until I fell asleep, as I did not notice him get up and go and clean himself. But when I awoke, we had switched positions, the two of us curled together, faces to the wall, his body a shield between me and the window.

 

When we woke, somewhere East of the Austrian border, with the dawn only a faint reddening in the sky, he kissed me awake, his mouth on mine, his hands on my breasts, and I reached for him hungrily. This time, he went on top, and he held me down by the shoulders, though he was much gentler with me than I was with him. With just his hips and his cock, he wrung things from my body that I had forgotten I was capable of feeling. There was me, feeling like an old woman, on the way to the funeral of my last living relation, and it took this 29 year old German with skin the colour of month-old snow, to reawaken my senses on an express train racing through Eastern Europe.

We made love all over again, and kissed as if the world would stop, and he told me he loved me with the sentimentality of a young man who had just been well-fucked, though he never even knew my name. Then we washed and we dressed, not in awkward silence this time, but in the happy, golden silence of two people who already knew everything we needed to know about each other and our bodies. He put his suit and his kitschy dog-tie back on; I redressed in my funerary attire. When we joined the tired businessmen queueing in the corridor to detrain, no one would think we were strangers, but just two old friends who had already talked through the night. And how strange it was, to stand on the platform, waiting to show our passports and have them stamped, looking at one another with wonder and amazement, to think, this stranger with the milk-white skin, eight hours ago, we had our faces in one another's genitals, and now we are wondering what to say, not to spoil it all.

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to ask me something. "Will you..." But then his face fell, as he remembered. "Oh, that's right. You are going to a funeral today."

"I am going to a funeral" I repeated, feeling my skin all alive underneath my leather skirt.

We walked towards passport control together, but as we went to join a queue, an official walked up to us and asked if we were married. I shook my head, said "Nein" and he directed us, each to a separate gate. Herr Hütter kept turning around to look at me in the queue, but the crowd of morning businessmen kept sweeping us in opposite directions.

"Will we see each other again?" he shouted at me, in his heavily accented French.

"I don't think so" I replied, in schoolgirl German that probably sounded French to him, as he smiled, leaping up and down on the balls of his feet to try to catch another glimpse of me through the crowd.

"What's your name?" he called, though his voice was very faint. "I'll find you!"

I shouted it back but I don't think he heard me.


End file.
